The Carl Powers Case
by MillicentArcher
Summary: Soooo... This was supposed to be a drabble and turned into an AU... Teen!Sherlock, Teen!Greg Lestrade, Teen!Mycroft, NO SMUT. Implied abuse.


**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Again, this was supposed to be a drabble and turned into an AU. Please drop me a review/PM if you want some more. :)

* * *

"Carl Powers."

John was confused. "…I'm sorry, who?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Carl. Powers. John."

John stared at him, a look that said, _yes, because that cleared it up. _"What is it?"

Sherlock was reminiscing. "It's where I began."

* * *

He was silent until the cab, then he suddenly became talkative. "1989, young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool, tragic accident. You wouldn't remember it; why should you?"

"But you remember?" John was incredulous and didn't really appreciate the scorn.

"Yes." Sherlock looked at him and John could almost hear the _of course_ that must have followed mentally.

"Something fishy about it?"

"Nobody thought so, nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers. "

"Started young, didn't you?" John was getting testy.

Sherlock ignored him. "The boy, Carl Powers had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was… Something wrong, something I couldn't get out of my head."

John waited for an explanation, and when none was forthcoming, finally asked "…What?"

"His _shoes_."

"What about them?" he prompted.

"They weren't there. I made a fuss, I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes." Sherlock picked up the plastic bag from the floor. "Until now."

For the rest of the cab ride, he was silent, staring out the window. He remembered. He remembered it clearly.

* * *

"HIS _SHOES_!" an incensed young Sherlock yelled as he was dragged out of the station by two officers. "WHERE WERE THE _SHOES_?!"

"I asked for him to be removed," the elder Detective Inspector Lestrade said calmly, looking over his papers. His teenaged son, Greg, was sitting in the office. Sherlock's muffled shouts could be heard from outside the building as the doors swung shut.

"Sorry, Dad," Greg said softly, slouching low in the chair to escape his father's gaze.

"I thought I asked you not to bring your mates here. I'm not a nanny."

"He said he'd found something. Some evidence you overlooked. I thought he could help-…"

"I don't care what you thought!" Lestrade snarled, looming over the desk. Greg cowered again. "There is nothing that boy knows that we don't." He sat back down. "Now go home. We're through here."

Greg nodded, scrambling out the door of the office and running out to the lobby. He grabbed his coat from a friendly secretary and slung it over his shoulder as he barreled out the door. A much calmer Sherlock was waiting, leaning against the building. He fell into step with Greg, the shorter teen tugging at his coat sleeves as he tugged it on.

"Did he say anything?" Sherlock prodded after a long moment of silence broken only by a few sniffs from Greg.

"Nothing of import, I promise you," Greg grumbled, stuffing his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders.

"Did you get him to listen?"

"No, Sherlock. He didn't listen."

"Oh."

There was silence again, and Greg could practically see Sherlock chafing to ask more questions. He sighed. "He just said that you shouldn't come around again."

"I see." Sherlock's lips pursed as he thought, his mind elsewhere. "Mycroft won't be pleased with me."

Greg laughed. "_Mycroft_?" he snorted. "Mycroft is nothing compared to my father." Sherlock's glance down at him made the smile fade. "Dad's a detective, sure, but he's not exactly clean." A curt nod from Sherlock, then he stopped suddenly.

"Greg… If you ever need me, just call."

"Pardon?"

"I said call." Sherlock walked away at a much faster pace before disappearing into an alley. Greg glanced around and realized he was in front of his own house. He headed up the steps and unlocked the door, leaning against it once he was inside. He went up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time, and hung his coat up on the door, kicking off his shoes and falling onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

* * *

He stayed that way until his father came home. He knew the housekeeper would have dinner on the table by now, waiting for the monthly check before she left. He slid downstairs silently, sitting at the table. It was just him and his dad. Mum had died when he was a kid, and there were no siblings. His father sat down heavily in the chair at the head of the table, a bottle of brew in front of him.

"That mate of yours compromised my case," he growled. Greg cringed. He knew how this dinner was going to unfold. A silent Greg and a raging father, maybe a few quick slaps, then to bed and repeat that morning.

"Sorry, Dad," Greg said softly, staring into his bowl.

"Sorry… Sorry that I lost another case because of your stupid friends?!" the elder Lestrade roared. Greg continued to stare into the bowl like it was part of a divination ritual, as if maybe if he looked long enough, it would turn into a portal and whisk him away.

"LOOK AT ME WHEN I SPEAK TO YOU!" his father yelled, the table shaking under the force of one meaty fist. Greg looked up at him, his face passive.

"I honestly thought he could help," he said as he stood. "If you'll excuse me, I have a phone call to make."

"I'm not finished!"

"I am, Dad. Now, excuse me." Greg left the dining room and went upstairs, throwing some clothes into a bag and grabbing the phone, dialing a number. _Please, Sherlock…_

"Holmes residence, Mycroft speaking."

"Mycroft? It's Greg. Sherlock told me to call."

"Ah yes, he had informed me… Come over immediately. He wanted to speak to you."

"Uhm…" Greg paused, and he could hear Mycroft waiting. "Could I crash over there tonight? It's just for tonight, I'll find somewhere else tomorrow—."

"Don't bother, I've found a place for you to stay already. Stay here tonight, and I'll have a flatmate for you tomorrow."

"That's… Very kind," Greg said. "Alright, well, I'll be over in a bit. Thank you, Mycroft." The line went dead, and Greg threw his bag over his shoulder, heading out the door. His father had his arms folded, and Greg threw him one less-than-apologetic glance before leaving the house forever.


End file.
